CHAPTER TEN ARSÈNE

CHAPTER TEN

ARSèNE

Four months later

“Darling, don’t forget to email Makayla back about the guest list.” Grace is standing at our apartment door, checking her pocket mirror for invisible lipstick smudges.

I never thought I’d find myself discussing the merits of beige and gray as a color scheme for a three-hour event, but life’s good at throwing curveballs at you, I suppose.

“Forget? This will be the highlight of my day.” I emerge from our bedroom, buttoning my dress shirt.

Grace is going to Zurich for another weekend of nonstop work. She rarely turns on her phone when she is there. I loathe it when I can’t reach her. Which is why I’m heading out to meet Christian and Riggs at the New Amsterdam tonight. Time passes quicker when you drown in enough alcohol to fill an Olympic pool. “I’ll email her tonight.”

“Tell her I don’t want to work with the flower shop she recommended. The one she claims Catherine and Michael used?” She is referring to Catherine Zeta-Jones and Michael Douglas like they live downstairs. “I read on Yelp that one delivery arrived at the venue with the flowers completely frozen. Oh, and she was supposed to send me the candle options. I hate to think she dropped the ball. Really, is it too much to ask for professionalism in this city?” She scrunches her nose.

“I won’t forget.” I lean down and kiss her long and hard, my mouth moving over hers as I add, “And if she drags her feet again, I’ll show her the wrath of a thousand Corbin men.”

She flings her arms over my shoulders, returning the sloppy kiss.

My hands slide down her back and cup her ass. “How about another quickie for the road?”

“Ugh. I wish I had time.” She disconnects from me, flipping her phone in my direction so I can look at the screen. There is a notification letting her know her Uber driver is waiting downstairs.

“Rain check?” She grins.

“I’ll hold you to it.” I kiss her again. “Have a safe flight.”

She lingers, smiling at me with something that almost looks like wistfulness.

“You know .?.?.” She trails off, her shoulders slumping. It’s a rare sight. Grace is usually a stickler for good posture. “I really do love you, Arsène. I know you don’t believe it. Not all the time, anyway. But it’s true. I’m glad we chose each other. I’m glad you won.”

My whole body beams. It is pathetic, how much I crave her approval. This must be the most pitiful form of mommy issues I’ve yet to witness.

“Hey, Grace?” I tug at her dark ponytail, winking. “I believe you.”

“You do?” She brightens.

I nod.

“Forever yours.” She kisses the side of my mouth.

“Forever yours.” I kiss the tip of her nose. “What would you like for your welcome-home meal? Thai or Burmese?”

Grace likes to return home to find the dining table set and a warm bath drawn for her.

She turns around, wheeling her suitcase out to the foyer, then stops, flashing me a glorious smile full of white straight teeth. “Surprise me.”

The knocks on my door are persistent, yet oddly apologetic.

Like the person behind it doesn’t want me to open. And for good reason. Not many people live to tell the tale of how they woke me up at ass-crack o’clock without notice.

What time is it, anyway?

Patting for my nightstand clock in the darkness, I bang on its head. The time says 3:18 a.m. Christ. Who the fuck decides three in the morning is a legitimate time for a social call?

Wait a minute. I actually do know someone as careless and reckless. And I’m happy to punch his face all the way to Antarctica for this disturbance.

Another bout of knocks sounds from the door.

Who let him in?This is why I pay an offensive amount of money every month for around-the-clock security. So people don’t knock on my door in the middle of the night. Whoever is in charge of reception tonight is going to get the boot.

The doorbell chimes. Once. Twice. Three times.

“I’m coming.” Never have I said these words with so little enthusiasm.

“Someone better be dead .?.?.?,” I mutter as I shove my feet into my slippers, dragging myself to the door, wearing nothing but gray sweatpants and a scornful scowl.

Flinging my door open, I start with, “Listen here, you waste of worldly resources. I don’t care if you’re leaving for Africa on Monday and Christian doesn’t want you to bring your hookup to his house like it’s a low-budget Airbnb .?.?.”

The rest of the words die in my throat. It isn’t Riggs. In fact, it isn’t anyone I know.

On my threshold are two people—a man and a woman—in dark-blue NYPD uniforms and grave frowns. They both look like they’ve just swallowed a full-size hedgehog.

I’ve had my brush with law enforcement in the past, but it is usually the IRS and SEC who rain trouble on my ass, not the honest-to-God police officers. I’m a white-collar man, with white-collar problems. Perhaps someone decided to off themselves next door and they want to know if I heard anything. Damn socialites and their chaotic lifestyles.

Narrowing my eyes, I ask, “Who died?”

“I’m so sorry, Mr.?Corbin.” The woman bows her head.

Well, then. Someone did die, and it’s someone I know.

I’m fresh out of parents, and my social circle is limited to those I absolutely must tolerate. I’m guessing .?.?. Riggs? He seems dumb enough to find his immature death. Maybe a Tinder date gone wrong.

Can’t be Christian. He is too responsible to get himself into trouble.

The man says, “I’m Officer Damien Lopez, and this is my colleague, Officer Hannah Del Gallo.”

“Thanks for the niceties. Now move on to the punch line,” I bite out, not in the mood for chitchat.

“Are you Gracelynn Langston’s fiancé?” he asks.

My heart, untouchable merely seconds before, now feels like it’s being clenched in their fists. Not her.

“Yeah. Why?”

“We’re very sorry.” The woman bites on her lips. Her chin trembles. “But your fiancée was involved in a plane crash. She died on impact.”

It’s not true.

I can’t really explain why it isn’t true; I just know that it’s not.

Which is why I don’t call anyone.

It seems hysterical, idiotic, and unnecessary. I’m not going to believe it until they show me proof.

I make my way to the hospital’s morgue in my own car to identify the body. The officers will meet me there.

One of the officers—Hannah—told me she called Miranda Langston, Grace’s official next-of-kin. She said Miranda is coming down from Connecticut to the morgue, but that understandably, it might take her till morning. I haven’t spoken to Miranda in over a decade, save for the taciturn exchange of condolences during Douglas’s funeral. But it occurs to me that she might not even know her daughter and I are engaged. In the spirit of having a fucked-up relationship to the highest degree, Grace and I never really discuss her mother in any form or capacity.

Which clearly doesn’t matter, since Grace is alive, and this is all a terrible misunderstanding that will end in someone being sued.

Grace can’t be gone. We’ve only just begun our lives together. We have plans. A wedding to organize. A honeymoon booked. She still hasn’t quit, birthed our babies, had her dream nuptials. Her bucket list is still full, sloshing about with plans and ideas.

Every time I stop at a traffic light, I scroll through the local news on my phone, trying to find reports about a United Airlines plane crashing. There are none. With each passing second, my suspicion this is a simple human error intensifies.

This is purely a case of identity mix-up. I’m sure of it. Grace flies United Airlines twice a month. The flight she is on is currently above the Atlantic, making its way to Zurich.

To think she is asleep, her cheek squished against a freezing window in first class, unaware of this entire mess floods me with warm satisfaction. I try to call her again, but her phone goes to voice mail.

This is not weird,I remind myself. Her phone is always turned off when she travels to Zurich.

Maybe it’s all a big fat prank.

I arrive at the hospital in a daze. Park. Stumble out of the car.

Relax, idiot, she is fine. It’s not her.

Even if it isn’t, I’m not particularly hot on seeing anyone’s corpse tonight, or any other night.

I head to the basement floor, where the morgue is, passing the loading dock area. The stench of hospital cleaning products assaults my nostrils. It deepens with each step I take, until my lungs burn. I need to get out of here.

The officers wait for me in the reception area. It’s a small blue-green room, with a row of simple benches. The air-con is on blast. The walls are littered with plastic holders offering brochures about group therapy and funeral homes and casket makers. Zero points for subtlety.

“Was the drive here okay?” Officer Hannah asks sympathetically.

“A fucking delight.” I pocket my car keys. “Let’s get it over with. You have the wrong person, and I’ve no time for this bull crap.”

Her concerned, poor-you frown doesn’t waver. “So here’s what we know so far. Miss?Langston’s private plane left Teterboro Airport at quarter past midnight this Friday—”

“See?” I sneer. “You’ve got your facts wrong. Grace boarded a United Airlines flight to Zurich. UA2988. She flew out of Newark. Jesus Christ, I can’t believe my hard-earned tax money is wasted on you and your likes.”

Officer Hannah’s face twists, like I’m beating each word into her skin. Officer Damien remains calm, his expression unreadable, but he does write things down in a stupid little notebook.

Nice journal you have there, Gossip Girl.

“I understand this may be the information you have—” she starts.

“This is not a matter of opinion,” I say sharply, losing all traces of decorum. “It’s the truth. There was a computer mix-up or something. Grace flew commercial out of Newark. Check again.”

“We were able to recover her passport.” Officer Hannah clears her throat, her eyes meeting mine for the first time.

I’m rendered speechless. It can’t be. Why would Grace lie about flying private?

Is it possible they got a perk this time around and she forgot to tell me? Unlikely, but not completely impossible.

I shake my head. “What about Chip Breslin? Paul Ashcroft? Pablo Villegas? Were they on the plane too?”

The two officers exchange glances. I want to grab them by the collar and shake the information out of them.

Suddenly, I’m on the brink of laughter. This is ridiculous. It is the kind of thing that happens to other people. People you read about in the newspapers. People who go on talk shows. Write heart-wrenching autobiographies. Not me. Not. Me.

“Look, Mr.?Corbin, I understand you’re upset. However, we—” Officer Damien starts.

The automatic doors behind us slide open. A small woman blazes inside. She’s wearing a brown wig, a puffy yellow dress with a hoop, elbow-high satin gloves, and heavy makeup.

Because my life is not bizarre enough as it is tonight.

“Lord! Tell me it ain’t true!” the strange woman wails in a southern accent.

Winnifred.

She either came straight from the theater or developed an extremely questionable fashion sense between Italy and now.

Her trim waistline doesn’t scream pregnancy. I’d forgotten to ask Grace if she was knocked up. It seemed of no importance at the time, when we were neck deep in wedding preparations.

Now I’d never get the chance to ask Grace about the unlikely Ashcroft couple.

Never get the chance to do a lot of things with her.

“Where is he?” Winnifred demands, looking left and right frantically. “I need to see him!”

Two officers rush toward her, trying to calm her down.

Grace went to Zurich with Paul. Well, that makes sense. He was her boss.

“I’m going to see if they can accept you now.” Officer Hannah rests her hand on my arm. “I can’t find the receptionist, but someone should be here to help us. Officer Damien went to see if we could get the dental records of those who were on the flight. We’ll be right back, Mr.?Corbin. Please wait here.”

The words brush past me. I’m more focused on Winnifred, who looks like the human answer to a dumpster fire, tears running down her face, leaving pale streaks of makeup. She is speaking to two officers. Maybe they have more information than the two clowns who knocked on my door. I strain my ears, piecing together parts of the conversation.

“.?.?. private plane .?.?. certified pilot .?.?. a seasoned professional .?.?.”

“.?.?. preflight inspection .?.?. poor tire condition .?.?. bear no legal responsibility, but a lawyer will be able to tell you more .?.?.”

“.?.?. no one is certain .?.?. these things unfortunately happen .?.?. anyone you’d like to call?”

Sharp, intense agony slices through me for the first time since this shit show unfolded. The prospect is becoming real, and with it, the consequences of losing the only person in this world I truly care about.

Everything I didn’t feel when Douglas died—the sorrow, the pain, the helplessness—is now cutting my inner organs into thin ribbons. I want to get closer, to hear everything. At the same time, I want everyone to shut the hell up. For this nightmare to go away.

Grace, enchanting as she is, isn’t the most trustworthy person on planet Earth.

She lied to our parents about me.

Lied to the world about our relationship for years.

Nothing stopped her from lying to me about her flight details.

At some point, the two officers who speak to Winnifred step outside, and we are left alone. Her red, bloodshot gaze lifts from the floor. Once she registers me, recognition kicks in. She looks like she’d love nothing more than to club me with one of the empty benches in the waiting room.

“Stop looking at me like a fawn. It’s not them,” I bite out, baring my teeth like a ghastly beast. “They’ve got the wrong people. We’ll be out of here before dawn.”

“You can’t be serious.” She lets out a pained moan. “Do you actually believe it’s an identity mix-up?”

“Yes,” I say tersely. “And I’m not willing to be persuaded otherwise by a fully grown woman wearing a Disney princess dress.”

She turns her head in the opposite direction and closes her eyes, pressing her lips together. Let her hate me. I care only about Grace.

I start pacing. What’s taking them so long? You can’t call people to recognize a body in the middle of the night and then keep them waiting for hours. After fishing my cell phone out, I google private plane crash Teterboro Airport and click on the news tab. There is one lone article about it, vaguely explaining there was a crash during takeoff and that the details are currently being investigated.

The officers return with a sleepy-looking receptionist and the two officers who came with Winnifred.

The four officers ask both of us to step aside with them to try to piece the timeline together.

“Do you know what the plane’s destination was?” asks Officer Damien.

“Zurich,” I say, at the same time Winnifred answers, “Paris.”

I give her a pitiful look. “Not all European capitals are the same, Country Bumpkin.”

It gives me sick pleasure to be cruel to her. I need to let my steam off somewhere, and she is the perfect victim.

“I can confirm the plane was headed to Paris.” Officer Hannah is jotting something on a notepad she is holding, not lifting her gaze from it.

My jaw slackens. Paris? Grace went to Paris? Why?

“How many people were on the plane, as far as you’re aware?” Officer Damien continues, turning his attention to Winnifred, who obviously has more information than I do.

“Three, minimum.” She rubs at her chin, looking wide eyed and lost, like a stunned teenager. “Paul, Gracelynn, and the pilot. Although I suppose there might’ve been a flight attendant or two. And a copilot? Gosh, I know nothing about those things.”

Fuck me.My source of information is currently wearing yellow plastic earrings.

“Is there any more information you can share with us?” Officer Hannah asks.

I stay silent. Whatever is happening, I’m not in the goddamn loop. Now, I’m just waiting for the officers to go away so I can interrogate Dolly Parton?Jr.?here.

She hesitates before shaking her head. “No. This is all he told me, sorry.”

Officer Hannah looks pained when she asks, “Do you happen to know, Mrs.?Ashcroft .?.?. did they travel for business or .?.?. um, leisure?”

Closing my eyes, I feel everything inside me collapsing, brick by brick. Everything I built over the years is gone, buried in ashes. The memories. The stolen kisses. The games. The stakes. The winning. All gone.

Winnifred’s voice sounds far away. “I—I don’t know.”

“You don’t know if they were traveling for business or pleasure?” Officer Damien repeats crassly.

“No.”

“I suppose this means you didn’t know that they were traveling together at all, then?”

“Stop that,” Officer Hannah chides under her breath.

“No,” Winnifred says, jutting her chin up, proud despite the ridiculousness of her outfit and this situation and this question. “He didn’t tell me he was traveling with Miss?Langston.”

“All right.” Officer Damien bites his inner cheek, frustrated. “Thank you, Mrs.?Ashcroft. The good news—if you could call it that—is that the pilot had attempted to land safely in the Hudson, so the bodies are in, er, presentable condition.”

“Fantastic news,” I drawl, unable to stop myself. “So they drowned, didn’t burn up in flames. Makes a world of difference. Country Bumpkin, aren’t you proud your husband’s funeral will be an open-casket event?” I throw her a deplorable smirk.

Winnifred gasps as if I just slapped her.

Officer Hannah puts a hand on Winnifred’s shoulder. “People say terrible things when they’re hurting,” she says to comfort her.

“Oh, saying terrible things is his party trick. It’s got nothing to do with what’s happening here.” Bumpkin side-eyes me.

Finally, Officer Damien gets a phone call, and the officers nod between them. “We’ll be right back.”

They all stride outside, mumbling between themselves, leaving Paul Ashcroft’s wife and me alone.

I turn to her. “You need to tell me everything.”

“Why! Are you talking to little ol’ me?” She stubs her index finger in her chest, putting on her thickest Tennessee accent. “’Cause I don’t know Rome from Reykjavík. So why don’t you take your big, smart brain and giant, intolerable attitude and shove them up your bu—”

“Truce.” I hold my palms up. “I know you know more than I do. That’s clear to everyone within a hundred-mile radius. And though we didn’t start on the right foot, it’s also clear that we’re both in the middle of a shit storm, so now would be a good time to excuse my manners and piece together what happened here.”

“No,” she says decisively.

I stare at her, transfixed. “Excuse me?”

“I won’t do it.” She folds her arms over her chest. “You can’t go around treatin’ people like they’re dirt, Mr.?Corbin. No matter how much money you’ve got in your bank account. Apologize first.”

You little sh .?.?.

“My sincerest regrets.” I bow with deliberate exaggeration. “I’m a thorny man used to getting away with deplorable behavior. I’ll think twice before opening my big mouth and taking out my wrath on people from now on. Can we move on?”

She sucks in a breath, nodding.

“Good. Now tell me everything.”

“Paul bought two tickets to Paris at the beginning of the month. It was supposed to be a romantic getaway. A reset button .?.?.” She hesitates, not wanting to unravel too much. “A chance for some one-on-one quality time.”

At the word Paris, the full weight of the betrayal crashes into me. Grace went with Paul to the most romantic city in the world. Alone. It doesn’t take a genius to know they intended on enjoying more than the local pastries and champagne.

I nod encouragingly. “And?”

“I told him I couldn’t come. I’d just landed my first theater gig. It was a big deal for me. Tonight was my first show. I’m Belle from Beauty and the Beast.” She smooths a hand over her stupid dress, like it’s her most beloved possession. A tear slides down from her cheek, to her neck, and onto the dress.

This dress will forever be sullied with her tears. The role tarnished with this moment, this place, this scene. Just like I’ll never be able to drive by this hospital again without thinking of Grace. Our lives are about to change forever.

I say nothing, letting her continue.

“Paul couldn’t cancel the hotel reservations, so he asked if I’d mind if he took one of his college friends, Phil. I know Phil. He was his best man and always comes over to watch baseball games. I told him to go for it .?.?.” She trails off.

She doesn’t have to say it out loud. The rest is abundantly clear. Paul didn’t take Phil. He took Grace. And they were caught red handed. Only now they aren’t here to face the consequences of their actions. My feelings veer dangerously from the Good, fuck them lane, to Why did you have to get on that plane, Grace? Wasn’t I enough?

“Why didn’t you tell them that?” I demand, looking to channel my anger at someone who is here, who is present, who is alive. “The officers.”

Fresh tears fill Winnifred’s eyes, and her nostrils flare. “I’m not jumping to conclusions. I trusted Paul.”

“Clearly he misused this trust to spend the weekend screwing my fiancée.”

“Maybe she caught a ride with him and had other business in Paris. We don’t know what happened there, and I’m not going to have his name tainted like that.” She tips her chin up.

She is still loyal to him, and that drives me nuts because the asshole not only cheated on her, but he did it with my goddamn future wife.

I want to shake the naivete out of her like she’s a piggy bank.

Then it dawns on me. She has a role to play. The devoted, loving wife. The one who will later get the fat insurance check and the sympathy. It’s not that Winnifred doesn’t believe Paul and Grace had an affair—it’s that she doesn’t give a damn.

She probably didn’t care who this white bread of a man screwed as long as she had access to his credit cards when he was alive.

“Believe what you wanna believe.” I screw the soles of my palms to my eye sockets. “It’s not my job to drag you kicking and screaming into the realms of reality, Belle.”

“Your version of reality is askew, anyway, Beast.” She huddles on the other side of the room and plasters her forehead against the wall.

I let out a bark of laughter. “Did you just call me a beast?”

“Yes, but I take it back,” she bites out. “The Beast redeems himself. You would never!”

“How was Paul not arrested for marrying you?” I wonder aloud. “You’re mentally twelve.”

“Well, no one forced you to talk to me!” she hits back. Her accent is thicker than ever when she’s angry. “Stay on your side of the room, and leave me the heck alone.”

We are both shells of our former selves. I know exactly why I’m broken—I just lost the love of my life, or the closest thing to one I’d ever have. But what’s her excuse?

Instead of processing the possible death of my fiancée, my mind begins swerving out of control, spinning wildly down an endless rabbit hole.

Did Grace love Paul?

Did she want to leave me for him?

What was the exercise of this pointless affair with him if she were to marry me? If she wanted to quit her job? Paul wasn’t particularly handsome, nor did he enjoy a wealth of gray matter.

How long had it been going on? Were they already at it, harboring this secret, while all of us were in Italy?

Was Grace really at work in Zurich all those days, those weeks, those months? Or was she with him?

And where did they meet when they were alone? A hotel? An Airbnb? The apartment Grace had refused to stop renting, “just in case”?

I want to know each and every sordid detail. To gorge on my own sorrow until I choke on it.

“Mrs.?Ashcroft?” A woman in a white robe walks out of a silver door. She takes off her thick glasses and cleans the lenses with the hem of her sleeve.

Bumpkin flattens her ridiculous dress, squaring her shoulders. The woman steps sideways, motioning for her to come with. Winnifred throws me one last die-in-hell glance. I want to tell her she can drop the whole wounded-widow charade. She got her wishes. She is a young, beautiful widow with millions in the bank, and no one can accuse her of foul play. Every gold digger’s dream.

We hold each other’s gaze for a moment. I hope my eyes convey what every bone in my body is screaming.

It should’ve been you on the plane.

You were supposed to die. You.

Unremarkable. Insignificant. Forgettable. Country Bumpkin.

Not my beautiful, sophisticated, math-wiz fiancée.

Not the cunning, alluring Gracelynn Langston. The spectacular woman only I understood.

“Please follow me.” The woman in the white robe ushers her. Winnifred complies swiftly and comes back ten minutes later, looking ashen and pale. Her shoulder bumps into my arm as she leaves the room, but she doesn’t even notice. I swivel my head to follow her movements. In the hallway, Winnifred collapses midstep, on the floor, back hunched, sobbing and sobbing and sobbing.

I don’t need to ask. I know. It was Paul she saw in there.

The woman in the robe saunters out the door again. “Mr.?Corbin?”

I close my eyes and press the back of my head against the wall.

Grace has somehow managed to slip through my fingers. Again.

I didn’t hold her tight enough, close enough, good enough.

And this time? The water didn’t save her.